“I need to pick up a couple of things.”
“Like?”
“Well, BDU’s—camouflaged of course—combat boots, spotting scope, extra mags for the H&K, my scoped AR-15, maybe a tomahawk.”
“Are we going to the crime lab, or Afghanistan?”
“Crime lab, Dickie. And then your place. I’m staying with you the rest of the weekend until we figure this out. I was thinking of having you stay with me, but we have Chuck and Patti to consider also—”
“And Elvis.”
“—and Elvis. If there’s a pro looking to kill you, I say we kill him first, fast, and repeatedly.”
“Kill him repeatedly?”
“Yes. Repeatedly. As in multiple times. A multiplicity, a plethora, a conglomeration of various and assorted methods, manners, and fashions, with an overabundance of glee in our hearts. Kill him dead, deader, and deadest, so that we send a message to the next sonofabitch who gets the idea to commit such un-Christian-like dastardly deeds upon us.”
“Why the BDU’s?” as if everything else made perfect sense.
“In case we need to hide in the bushes, Dickie. Jesus.”
We dropped the evidence at the crime lab with a technician who had the night duty. Floyd asked that he put it on Gentry’s desk with a note to call him ASAP for direction. We pulled away from the curb and made a U-turn on Beverly Boulevard heading west.
“Where now?” I asked.
“Tommy’s. I told you I’d let you buy me a burger and beer. Well, let’s grab a Tommy’s; I have a box of beer in the trunk. It’ll be like the old days.”
“Jesus, man, we aren’t twenty-five anymore. That shit will kill a couple old men like us.”
“Where is your sense of adventure, Dickie? Besides, if anything’s going to kill us, it’s going to be boredom. You’re driving me insane.”
I chuckled. “Okay, you’re the boss. What’d Cindy say about you moving in with me for a couple days?”
“She started to give me some shit until I gave it to her straight.”
“Straight.”
“Yeah, Dickie. You know, I’m seldom serious about anything. On the rare occasion I am, it has an effect on people. It’s something you should try. Lighten up a little, then, when you get serious, people will pay attention. Nobody pays attention to you cause you’re pissed off all of the time. Everyone just thinks it’s normal shit. Anyway, Cindy saw it on my face when I told her there might be a contract on you and I wasn’t going to leave you alone to get yourself killed. She started to say, ‘Bring him here,’ and I explained the Chuck and Patti thing—”
“And Elvis.”
“—and Elvis, and so now she understands.”
There was a heaviness in the ensuing silence. Then Floyd lightened up. “Besides, I told her you’d sleep through your own fucking murder if I wasn’t there to wake you.”
Leonard had driven past the used car dealer and saw that it now appeared abandoned, not a single vehicle left on the lot. There was crime scene tape on the gate and again at the office. The dead Russkies had been discovered. He fondly recalled the feel of slicing the man’s throat, and the final spasms of his body and gasps for air. It must be awful to die that way, he thought, but there were worse ways to go. He imagined a sharp knife wouldn’t cause much pain, but the shock of knowing it was all over would be surreal. Knowing you were a dead man and there was nothing you could do about it. Seeing your life blood shoot across the room at a dumb, big-titted blonde, who sat chomping her gum, and knowing that bitch was the last thing you’d ever see.
Now, she, on the other hand, had died a violent death. Leonard smiled as he pictured himself stabbing her repeatedly in the throat until finally he hit the jugular and made it happen. He preferred to be more kind in killing, such as the way he had let the little girl go quietly in the still of the afternoon. It had been such a pleasant experience, for them both, he was sure. It was very pleasurable when he was able to explore her body thoroughly in the privacy of their moments together. He remembered the photos on the phone and thought he would look at them again soon, when he wasn’t driving. The idea of it thrilled him.
The bloody scenes had their own appeal, but he relished the violence more when the person was deserving, as was the case with the two stupid Russian gypsies who had ripped him off with the piece of shit car they sold him. It was far less pleasant to employ such violence against less deserving souls, those who were destined for death but not necessarily justifiably so. Some people had to die to benefit others, Leonard knew. Especially now that he had gone professional.
Take the hooker. What a lovely lady she had seemed to be, all the way up to the moment he sawed off her head. Which had been oddly intriguing, and made for an interesting experience. He found that his knife cut cleanly through the tissue and muscle, and when it hit bone, with just a slight adjustment in its trajectory, he was able to work the knife through the cartilage and discs. When the head came off, he couldn’t believe it. He laughed out loud as he now recalled it, picturing himself holding the head by its hair, the two of them looking each other directly in the eyes. Hers were wide open, intense. The thought of kissing the headless woman had amused him, so he did it. The hands had come off in similar fashion, just a little maneuvering and voila, the knife sliced cleanly through. He didn’t like handling the woman’s hands but didn’t mind holding her head by a lock of hair. He now pondered that phenomenon but had no answer. The left hand was to be mailed back, and it was. But why? He didn’t know. It occurred to him that perhaps the client wanted proof of a wedding band, or to see the absence thereof. But there was no wedding band, only a tattoo where a wedding band would be worn, and it had nothing to do with matrimony. It was a simple word surrounded by two red hearts: Sisters. The remaining parts were to be discarded, which was easy enough. The head and other hand were accompanied by several large rocks and placed in a suitcase and tossed into the nearby ocean. That was all that had been required of him. That and mailing back the one hand. Two men had arranged the rest, collecting the body and her car and driving off in tandem in her car and theirs. The dead hooker rode in her trunk wrapped in plastic. He had wondered what they would do with her but dismissed it as unnecessary knowledge. His job was completed. Next.
Now this cop. Jesus, this had been a nightmare all around. And now when he needed a car, the fucking Russians were dead and all their cars were gone. Leonard figured the cars would be at a police impound where they would discover that they were all stolen, and then see that their deaths had been justified. Nobody liked thieves.
He dropped down onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Boys Town, where the sissies hustled rich men who had grown tired of the old hags they’d married and could no longer get a young woman. Boys were easy, no bullshit. Twenty bucks and the little junkies would get you off and they never even tried having a conversation. Some of them were predators though and would rip the men off because they knew the men would never report it to the cops. Leonard normally avoided those boys. Not tonight though. Tonight, he felt like teaching one a lesson. He would find a predator—he could spot them easily by the look in their eyes—and that would be the one he would date. And kill. It was Saturday night, and this was a day off, a night for selfish pleasures. Tomorrow he would be back to work finding a new car. And then he would get back on track, back to hunting the pig.
In the apartment, Floyd said I needed to spruce things up a bit if I were planning to stay, make it feel more like home. He also said if I were going to have a woman guest, he would recommend buying some plants, or a fish. He said it would make it seem like I was civilized and mature, give a woman the impression I wasn’t the giant asshole he knew me to be. He said, “Look, a couple Bonsai trees and maybe a salt-water tank, but don’t fill it with sharks. Get something pretty that doesn’t live to kill other shit. It’s all about presentation, Dickie.”
“Bonsai trees?”
“Yeah, you know, those Japanese miniatures, little trees the size of plants. You can prune th
em this way or that, make them grow up or flow out to the sides. Oh yeah, Dickie, there’s all kinds of things you can do with them. I’ve always wanted one. It’d be cool to have a couple as a hobby, something to do indoors when it’s raining or a serial killer’s watching your house and you can’t go out. I’d probably end up pruning mine into a gigantic penis though, accidentally. That would be my luck. I’d trim a little here and there and the next thing you know, I’d have this giant green erection on the coffee table. Cindy would be cocking her head left and right, trying to figure out what the hell it was supposed to be. Maybe, if I do ever get one, I’ll get me a little Japanese girl to take care of it, kind of a house girl. Tell Cindy she’s just here for the tree, honey. What do you think?”
“You’re not right in the head, man.”
“Right, evidenced by the fact I’m having a sleepover with you. Two grown men spending the night together hoping to kill someone. Hey, speaking of you trying to change your image, how’s that going with the shrink? Are you two dating yet? I think she’d have a whole different outlook on your mental stability if she saw you were into Bonsais, or at least had a fish.”
I was shaking my head. “Dude, honestly, you kill me. No, I haven’t got anything planned with Dr. James—”
“Oh, it’s Dr. James now, is it? Not the shrink.”
“—she’s my doctor, and I’m pretty sure there’s rules about that for her. Besides, she’s out of my league.”
He laughed. “They’re never out of your league, Dickie, not unless you let them think they are. Next time you see her, tell her, ‘Hey, doc, how about we get a beer and I’ll introduce you to my Bonsai tree.’ She’d love that. Worse she could say is no, and if she says no, she’d tell you there’s rules against her dating a patient. It’s not like she’s going to tell you you’re ugly or fat or have bad breath. Hey, let’s kill the lights in here and have a couple beers on the balcony. If he doesn’t show up by two or three, we’ll take shifts sleeping.”
35
AN HOUR BEFORE dawn Sunday morning, Leonard drove his newly acquired vehicle through the empty parking structure not far from where he stayed in downtown Los Angeles. The area was currently impacted by the Urban Renewal Revitalization Project, the queer had told him. There were abandoned, demolished, and under-construction buildings, homes, parking structures and more, all over the area. The old, crime-ridden, poverty-stricken, gang-infested neighborhoods from downtown Los Angeles to Hollywood were being rejuvenated and attracting new businesses—including clubs and restaurants—as well as investors, residents, tourists, and hipsters on the hunt for new nightlife crazes. There were new parks with walking and jogging paths and water features that gave people a sense of tranquility. As if fresh buildings and neon signs displaced a quarter-of-a-million gang members who kill each other and random Angelenos when not raping and robbing them or supplying them with drugs.
The queer had pulled alongside Leonard at a stoplight. He had licked his red lips and asked if Leonard was looking for a good time, and if he really wanted to pay one of these street hustler queers when there were lonely, legit gays who gave it up for free. Leonard hadn’t spotted the right one yet, the type he had been cruising for, so he quickly considered and then accepted the offer. The queer appeared fragile and weak, a thin young man with slicked hair and the face of a boy; he probably had AIDS. He was driving some sort of sporty little car, black with tan leather interior. An AIDS-ridden trust-fund fag, or maybe he still lived with his rich dad and a mom who thrived on Valium and red wine. He was perfect. Leonard would satisfy his desire to snuff the life from another and at the same time resolve his need for a new car.
“What do you have in mind?” Leonard had asked. The boy said he’d show him a good time and said to follow him; he’d take him to a place nearby where they could be alone. So Leonard had done just that, smiling all the way, knowing it would be him who showed the queer a good time. His last good time.
Leonard might have let the boy pleasure him on the top of the vacated parking structure had he not feared the boy was sick with the AIDS. He was sick with something, and Leonard wasn’t a desperate man. He had learned to live without family or friends and he had never had a relationship or any meaningful companionship other than his cellie, Whitey Blanchard. Sex was easy to forego, easier than food, water, booze, and cigarettes. He lit a Camel as he turned onto Sunset Boulevard and drove toward downtown. The streets were empty now, the night finally over even for the most enthusiastic of revelers. Leonard thought back to the moment on top of the structure when he and the queer first embraced outside of their cars and then Leonard clamped both hands on the boy’s fragile neck and began squeezing. The boy’s eyes were wide open yet soft and pleading as he gasped and resisted, but only slightly. His weak body had been no match for Leonard, who was much stronger than he appeared. The distant sounds of cars and jovial voices from the streets below had replaced the sounds of choking and gasping and gurgling as the boy finally slumped onto the hood of the car. Leonard had carefully lowered him to the cool concrete and after another minute—to assure his death—released his grip of the boy’s neck. He had then leaned against the car and lit a cigarette as he looked across a blanket of softly glowing lights that ended downtown where blinking red lights marked the tops of skyscrapers.
Leonard contemplated the idea of switching cars and leaving the dead boy in the piece of shit sedan he had bought from the gypsy. The cops would find both—the boy and the car—and the boy would then be thought to have murdered the Russian and his girlfriend, the bottle-bleached blonde who had hardly whimpered as Leonard punched the blade of his knife into her throat. Leonard had admired her resolve, and as he thought more about the way he had efficiently killed them both, he realized he didn’t want the fag to be credited with their deaths. He dropped his cigarette and lit another, filling both lungs to capacity before allowing the smoke to drift from his nose and mouth. His face muscles relaxed and gave way to a budding smile brought on by a revelation: the cops would never know the boy was a queer, if they never knew who the boy was.
With that, Leonard had set to work using his recently acquired skill of removing the head and hands of a fresh corpse with his sharp knife. It was easier this time than it had been with the woman. The hooker. The great looking broad with expensive jewelry and a delightful fresh scent that seemed natural to him. He allowed the blood to drain from the queer, and then the newly severed parts were placed in a shopping bag Leonard found in the back seat of the dead boy’s car. The bag was then stored in the trunk for the drive south. He would bypass the city and head down the Long Beach Freeway, straight for the ocean, where he would say goodbye to gay boy but not kiss him because he was certain the kid had AIDS.
Leonard stalled the car while turning onto the freeway onramp. It was the third time. He had never driven a car with a standard transmission before, but knew he could easily learn to do so. Like learning martial arts or how to make pruno from fruit cocktail and warm water in a plastic bag in your cell. He pushed in the clutch and restarted the car. This time, he gave it more gas as he slowly released the clutch. The engine whined but then the transmission caught, and the car jumped forward and roared up the onramp.
The freeway was mostly empty as the sky to the east showed its first signs of light. Leonard would have to hurry to discard the bag before the light of day was upon him. He moved over two lanes and settled in at 65 mph, careful not to draw attention. Leonard pictured the queer sitting behind the wheel of his abandoned car without his head or hands. He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, his face lighted by the soft glow of the vehicle’s cluster of gauges, and he laughed.
At noon I awoke suddenly to a loud crash in the living room. I rolled out of bed, instinctively grabbing my pistol from the nightstand. I quickly moved to the threshold and brought the gun up as I stepped through the short hallway and into the living room. Floyd looked over and said, “Nice shorts, Dickie.”
“What the hell? . . .”
He stood near the coffee table leaning on a golf club. My eyes drifted from his grin to the club—it was a nine iron—to the coffee table with a shattered glass top. When my eyes met his again, he shrugged.
“Practicing my swing, Dickie, while you’re in there sleeping. Do you know you snore?”
“Do you know you break shit? This is why we can’t have nice things.”
“Like a fish tank,” he said, “or Bonsai trees.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, Dickie, as much as I love seeing your fat ass half naked, I’d prefer you got dressed and ready to go. You’ve bored the hell out of me again.”
“Where are we going?”
“I was thinking we’d get some lunch. I’m starved. Then head to the office; we’ve got shit to do.”
He gripped the club with both hands again and took his stance, lining up the imaginary ball with the patio door, apparently playing through. He didn’t look up when he said, “Let’s go, Dickie.”
I retreated to my room shaking my head and mumbling about Floyd being a bull in a china shop. After I shaved and showered, I dressed in Sunday casual attire: slacks and a sports shirt. This would allow me to be somewhat presentable if something came up that required us to be out among the public. We started down the stairs descending from my apartment to the back yard of Chuck and Patti’s home, and Elvis waddled up to meet me at the bottom. I bent down and patted his head and ran my hand gently over his soft, rumpled face. He licked at me and wagged his bobtailed butt. “Okay, little buddy, I’ll see you tonight.”
“That dog hates you,” Floyd said.
“How do you figure? Did you see that? Did you see him run up to me and wag his tail when I petted him?”
“Only you would consider that running. As a matter of fact,” Floyd said, now leading the way to the gate, “you two have about the same build and you run in similar fashion. Maybe he does like you. Maybe he thinks you’re his dad or something.”
Hard-Boiled- Box Set Page 58